Oliver.
14. Henny was different when I came back to the Dump. He was cool. By this time he'd spent half the money hiring PMC boys to sit at the tower and protect him. The tower boys would challenge me to wrestling matches sometimes, and David was the only one who could make it a minute with me. This kid liked to tangle assholes; he was tough. When I got back, David was waiting on me down here at the horse house. We walked one of our routes, and he told me things were going astray with Al Ferez, which was what we called Henny; in the drinking one night, one of the Spanish kids told us alférez was like an ensign, a flag carrier, which is exactly what Henny was: walking around with all these tough kids protecting him, waving the flag, part of the gang -- so, Al Ferez.
He said, Al Ferez is getting weird, Ollie. Four nights in a row, and just walked. He wouldn't let anyone shoot anything.
With the cameras.
Right, the cameras.
After we shook you guys down for the electricity, Henny got luxurious. There was a kid who used to come and trade scavenge with us; his whole strategy on searching out wares must have changed with Henny Newton as a customer: while the bugs searched for rations, this kid went looking for art. He came with all sorts of survivors, but the best deal made was this time the kid showed up with three rolled up pages. The first was a drawing of a naked woman leaning over herself, her breasts sagging into her paunch. Henny nodded for the kid to unfurl number two, which was another drawing, a group of farmers huddled around a table for supper, a man proudly holding up a potato. To me, these were just ugly people, and Henny didn't seem impressed either. The third was larger than the other two, and once rolled out, it stretched seven or eight feet by five, and the kid actually yelled out, Shit! It was blank. He'd thought his workday was for nothing. But Henny jumped up from his chair, It's a movie screen, Ollie! We'll tape this one up, and run the projector over it! That'll be neat! To the kid: I'll give you twenty dollars for the three.
Once the kid left, Henny turned to me smiling: Potato eaters, He said.
That kid eats rats.
No. The drawing. The Potato Eaters. It's Van Gogh. So's the chick. Fucking world we're in. I need to tell you something, Ollie. Don't be mad. We can't do this movie. I told the Russians I'd shoot their movie here, make it an allegory everyone would understand -- these rubes think the world knows about them still. Russians. I promised them, but I can't do it. I have a new idea. It has to be done.
You see, Maggie, Henny Newton is the coldest thing I've ever known. Not only did he take your money, and alter the promised service, but he also reneged on the original screwjob he had promised the Russians. And he didn't care. There is always a new bad idea with him. Now an adventure movie. Like the promised allegory, he'd shoot it here in the garbage, but it was to be an ancient tale. Old Gods. Ragnarok was his new love. Let's punch Mjölnir against the garbage. We'll have Odin walk the tunnels interviewing Bugs. Asgard is here, He'd say. He'd run the story by everyone, and we'd all listen respectfully: The Norse Pantheon, an episodic epic of mass suicide. Gods chatting up men, and pulling dirty tricks on them. He'd say, How many cops did they drop on this place? What if, and hear me: what if this were the place they tied the Trickster up, and let him wait for the End to come. And while the asps spit on him, he called all the meanest monsters to his endgame cause? What if it were the Gods who blew the city up?
The boys said: Henny, baby, cool out with the dope, Baby.
I'm sober as a mule. He'd claim.
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